Summary: Clint, being held by the Company, gets a visitor who has a very specific goal in mind.

You Think We're Evil

Private Hospital, New York

Well, Clint has just finished getting his arm re-banadged by the Company's doctors. Bullet wounds never want to heal properly. And he hasn't exactly been given any Claire blood transfusions, so he's having to heal up the old fashioned way. He's back in his 'room', i.e. the cell they use to hold him hostage. He'll figure out how to get out of here sooner or later. Unless they move him again. Which would be bad for him. So he waits..

Rap-a-tap-tap. Those would be knuckles rapping on the door of the room Clint is being kept in, just before the door itself opens a crack and a young woman peeeeeeks in. Mousy brown hair shoved into a loose, messy bun, she peers at the man through glasses that are too big for her dainty features. She looks awfully young to be a doctor - early twenties at the latest - but she has a crisp white labcoat on nonetheless (with simple, dressy black attire beneath) and she carries a clipboard when she eventually steps into the room. The door clicks shut behind her. "Mister Evans…?" she queries innocently, her proper British accent immediately obvious.

Clint peers at her, "Hmph. Yeah?" He asks, as he looks up from the chair he was in. He knows he's not crazy. But maybe he is. But he's not. If he were crazy, he wouldn't really be able to teleport. He'd just think he could, "Which doctor are you supposed to be?"

The young woman clutches her clipboard to her chest, crossing both arms over it; the labcoat seems too big for her, the sleeves drooping, though it's perhaps not as oversized as her spectacles. "Oh, I'm not a doctor," she says meekly, her chin hitting the edge of the clipboard as she starts to fumble with it. She shuffles toward the foot of Clint's bed. She's… pretty awkward, altogether. "Not yet anyway! I'm just an assistant. My name is Aspen. I'm here to check your vitals, M-Mister Evans, and make sure you're holding up," she says, managing a little polite smile before moving to the side of the bed. IV, check. Onto the gunshot wound. She places the clipboard on the bedside table. "May I?" she gestures to the bandages.

Clint hrms a bit, "This place so underfunded they can't get a fitting labcoat?" He asks, "Yeah, sure, you can look. It's a little bit better, but it's still a gunshot wound to the arm." He offers his left arm to her.

"It's a loan. I'm new, see," Aspen explains and starts to hover a hand over the bandages— then, as what appears to be an afterthought, pulls a pair of blue surgical gloves out of one of her labcoat's pockets. "Oopsie, wouldn't want to forget these…" she mutters quietly under her breath, then promptly flashes Clint a scintillating smile. She unfurls the bandage slowly and methodically; when the wound is revealed in its ugly GSW glory, she cocks her head to one side, examining it. "Hm. Well. It looks like it's healing up brilliantly. Is this your first gunshot wound Mister Evans?"

"Uh. Yeah." He says, "I'm generally not in the profession of getting shot." He says, "But it seems that life is just full of surprises, huh?" He asks, "So how'd you end up working here?"

The "assistant" goes about re-bandaging Clint's arm. It's not exactly neat the second time around, but she makes an effort so that it should /stay/, at least. "I suppose you're not. Design engineering was it, hmm? After a life of so-called footballing that wasn't meant to be, is that right?" Idle chatter, as she finishes the re-patching and steps back. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets and shrugs modestly. "I owe a great deal to this organization. And I like it here." Aspen's head slants down; she quirks a brow, looking at Clint over her glasses, her eyes sparkling curiosity and widening ever-so-much. "But-but… you… you don't like it here, do you, Mister Evans?" She frowns. No, /pouts/. "You think we're -evil-."

"Okay, well, yeah. I think you're evil. But you did have agents shoot and kidnap me, so what, did you want me to think you guys were okay and I just misjudged you? Come on." He says, "And you've got some way to suppress my powers or you know I'd be long gone by now.."

"I'll be honest with you Mister Evans," Aspen says quietly, "Sometimes the company has to use some less-than-upstanding methods, but the end goal is admirable, I think." Funny how there's a little upward twitch of the young woman's mouth just then. She regards Clint with something vaguely resembling sympathy before she blurts out all of a sudden: "…I think it's time for your pills." She swipes her clipboard from the table, clutches it to her chest again, and scurries out of the room. Click.

It's only about half a minute before Aspen returns, that clipboard tucked under one arm while she brandishes a tray in the other. A clear plastic cup of water and a paper dish, the type often used to dispense pills, sits atop it. She holds it like a waitress might.

Clint frowns a bit, "You guys have been pretty much forcing these pills down my throat since I got here." He says, "First time I refused to take them I was made to do it at gunpoint." He grunts, "So just give 'em here.." He thinks about it for a second. This is probably what's doing it. Too bad they force him to take them..

Too bad? Good thing, rather! The bespectacled woman smiles encouragingly at Clint as she places the tray on the bedside table. She hands him the pills - it's a colourful assortment. "That's the spirit!" She taps a finger on her chin a few times, and after a few moments of watching the man, speaks up again. "I'm afraid I have a bit of a confession to make…" Aspen slides off her unwieldy glasses, which does wonders for her appearance —- and in the same gesture, her grin turns a little smug and wicked. Not so meek. "I'm not here about your health, Clinty-Clint." She kneels one knee at his left on the small mattress.

Clint blinks a little bit. Okay. What the hell. This is like a scene from a movie, or something, "Okay.." He says, "So, what are you here for, then?" Please be rape. Please be rape. Well, maybe not really. But that wouldn't be terrible. She's kinda good looking without the glasses..

"As it turns out," Aspen begins, leaning down, down, down, until she's all but face to face with Clint. "One of my bosses is something of an art collector. Here's the thing, love," She raises a hand to his face with the intent to smoosh his cheeks together harmlessly. Fishy-fishy. "He wants his paintings back. And /you/," she purrs, "Know where they are, don't you. So. Here's what's going to happen." The woman sits back on her heel, making the bed bounce for a second. "You're going to tell me where you and your little friends have been hiding them, so I can tell my boss and get a cookie for being a good girl, hm?"

Clint snorts, "I knew it." He says, "No, I don't know where the paintings are. I specifically told Hiro not to tell me where he was putting them, so that if I did get caught by you guys, you couldn't have some psychic pick the info out of my brain." That's the reason he didn't tell Hiro where he or Jane were hiding at. So that if Hiro got picked up, they couldn't pull that info out.

This does not please Aspen. Ocean blue eyes squint at Clint and she roughly lets go of his face, crossing her arms in a mild huff. "Well, that's no fun at all. I was hoping you'd resist, but that's just pathetic." She tips her chin up. "How do I know you're not lying? If you stick to this game, you know…" She flips through the clipboard and tosses a black-and-white photo onto Clint's chest. It's a surveillance snapshot of Jane Forrest. "We'll just find another method. Boss-man needs those paintings, darling, there's no way around it. Stolen property and all that, hot commodity. We could just get the /police/ involved…"

Clint grabs ahold of the picture, and looks at it, "Oh. Fine." He says, "I see you all know more about me than I know about you. That's a little bit disturbing, actually." He says, "How long you been spying on me? Since I hit Kirby Plaza or before that?" He figures he'll play the game for now, "I told you, Hiro has them."

Aspen looks disappointed more than anything. See that regret welling up in her big blue eyes? Tragic. "Blah blah blah, I don't have a clue. I just do as I'm told, darling. Hiro has them. Where does Hiro /have/ them? He's not exactly the easiest fellow to track down, much like yourself— oh wait, I guess that wasn't so hard afterall." She smirks. Clearly, this woman should not be put in charge of public relations for the Company. "I bet your gal-pal knows where they are," she says, peeking over the photo to look at it; she trails a finger around Jane's face. "She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?"

Clint glares at her. His hand clenches into a fist, "You leave her out of this." He says, as he looks at the picture again, "Just leave her alone. As for Hiro, truthfully, I've barely been in contact with him. The paintings are still in the city, I know that much. In somebody's apartment. Hiro said that he'd found more of the paintings that were missing off the truck."

"I see." There's a small smirk on Aspen's face; she regards Clint through half-lids for a moment, one brow faintly raised skeptically - or is that with amusement? Tucking the glasses she was wearing over the front of her shirt, she reaches for Clint's bandaged arm, and if he doesn't move? She's pressing her thumb into the bullet wound she took a peek at earlier. Also, she straddles him. What? It's easier. Gritting her teeth, but still smirking, she cuts to the chase. "How about we give your friend Hiro a ring then, hm, love? Have a nice informative chat about art and friends, let him know you're in /good health/?"

Now's as good a chance as any. Clint, despite his injury, moves to push her off of him with his good arm, "How about let's not!" He knows he's not getting out of here, but he's not going to give up anything else, "You want Hiro, you guys find him yourself. He's probably off in the past altering the timeline or something to make sure you all never exist." Even though it's more likely that Hiro is the entire REASON the company exists..

Aspen doesn't exactly get pushed off, but she does get pushed back, and that makes her pout rather dangerously. Shoved, she rocks back and clambers off the bed - half because of Clint, half of her own volition because she's insulted. "Hmph. Well. You're a bloody ray of sunshine, aren't you. Fat chance getting any special privileges with that kind of unwillingness to cooperate, Clinty-Clint." Standing up prim and proper, she smoothes down her outfit.

"Oh, by the way, Miiister Evans? Don't blame the company for my lying," the Brit says matter-of-factly. "I have a bit of a problem, see, I'm well aware. They don't hire me for being honest and good, but I like to pretend," she says, sliding those glasses back on as she heads for the door. "But we're not here to talk about /my/ troubles, are we?" she questions very rhetorically as she adjusts the spectacles, looking over her shoulder. "I'm the one in the pretty white coat, and you're the one hospitalized. Ta ta!"